


Bonfire Day

by mitslits



Series: Prompts [16]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5000653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitslits/pseuds/mitslits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here’s mine: “Remember, remember, the fifth of November”. (Ship: Roxlin or Hartwin or none at all. No main character death plz!!) Thank you!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonfire Day

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with more prompts. Here we go. 
> 
> Also, I’m gonna do my absolute best not to butcher the meaning behind this phrase, but if I get something wrong any British followers can feel free to call me out. Educate me.

_Remember, remember! The fifth of November, the Gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason why the Gunpowder treason should ever be forgot!  
_  
Eggsy slams into a wall, panting heavily as he swipes an arm across his forehead, smearing blood into his suit. “If there were an award for least original crime ever, these guys would be winnin’ it,” he mutters sourly.   
  
The comms link crackles to life, Merlin’s voice grim in his ear. “Now is not the time for jokes, Galahad. In case you’ve forgotten, Parliament’s at stake-”  
  
”Yeah, guv, I’m aware.” Eggsy’s head thuds back against the wall and his eyes close momentarily as he attempts to gather himself. There are fourteen of them and one of him. They’ve got semi-automatics, he’s got the standard-issue gun and is down to three shots. The steady hail of gunfire he just met proves they’re not in the same situation.   
  
Outnumbered, outgunned, and with a clock ticking down to midnight, November 5th. He’s faced worse odds.   
_  
Guy Fawkes and his companions did the scheme contrive to blow the King and Parliament all up alive._  
  
“I don’t wanna sound pushy, Merlin, but have I got any backup comin’?” Eggsy asks, voice strained. He’s popped his head around the corner to try and take stock of the situation, but he’d had to pull it back before he could get a good look. Blood trickles down into his eye and he wipes it away with nothing more than an annoyed huff. There’s so much adrenaline pumping through him right now he doubts he’d feel even something as big as a broken rib. Which, with the way his breath has been rattling through his chest, is not entirely out of the realm of possibility.   
  
It takes a couple seconds before Merlin responds and he sounds even more stressed than Eggsy. “I’ve sent Bors and Percival in after you.” A pause. “And it seems Arthur has gone in as well.”   
  
Eggsy’s eyes snap open. “What?”   
_  
Threescore barrels laid below, to prove old England’s overthrow. But, by God’s providence, him they catch with a dark lantern, lighting a match!_  
  
There’s the sudden sound of gunfire and shouting, shrieks of pain punctuating the air every so often. And then there’s an eerie silence.   
  
Cautiously, Eggsy peeks out from around the wall, squinting to make out the figures in the distance.   
  
“Galahad?” one of them calls.   
  
Eggsy grits his teeth and marches out, aggressively wiping blood away from his eye again. “Goddammit, Harry, you’re supposed to be restin’,” he hisses.   
  
Bors and Percival exchange an uncomfortable glance, each of them taking a pace or two backwards.   
  
“I had the situation-”  
  
“If you say under control you _will_ be sleeping on the sofa for a week,” Arthur says coolly.   
  
Eggsy opens his mouth to deliver a cutting retort, but Merlin breaks in before he gets the chance.   
  
“Not that this isn’t highly amusing, gentleman, but I think it would be beneficial to us all if you had this little argument after we’ve defused the bomb.”   
  
_A stick and a stake for King James’ sake! If you won’t give me one, I’ll take two, the better for me and the worse for you._   
  
It takes them a few minutes to find the bomb, even with Merlin’s instructions. The subway tunnels are deep and dark and the night vision in their glasses can only do so much. Bors is the one to locate it and he calls the rest of them over after he takes out the few men still surrounding it.   
  
“Bit more than twelve this time,” he mutters contemptuously, nudging one of the bodies with his foot.   
  
Arthur steps forward with the bomb kit, but Galahad pushes him out of the way, wresting it from his grip. “My mission, Arthur. You ain’t even supposed to be here.” Turning his back on him, he bends down to look at the mass of wires all stuck to a control panel that’s got a timer screaming through numbers.   
  
He just blinks away the blood and sweat and settles down to it.   
  
_A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope, a penn’orth of cheese to choke him, a pint of beer to wash it down, and a jolly good fire to burn him!_  
  
Two minutes to midnight and Eggsy is done. This fifth of November’s a peaceful one.


End file.
